Page 157 of The Ache That Stayed

“Come. I’ve made chai. Extra ginger. Just the way you like it.”

The strong, sharp smell hit me before the taste did. Too much ginger. The way Santino made it. My fingers tightened around the cup, tears threatening to fall out, throat closing on itself.

The terrace looked the same. Frangipani in full bloom, its fragrance thick in the air. It always bloomed when I came home. I never questioned it. As if the house knew and welcomed me back in a language I didn’t understand.

My mother didn’t ask me anything. That was what made it harder. Instead, she spoke the way she always did—softly, steadily. About small, ordinary things that didn’t matter yet somehow did. As if the world hadn’t shifted beneath me. As if I could step back into it.

“I need to tell you something.” My voice felt foreign.

“Do you remember…” my voice came out rough, unused, “when Uncle Darius used to come home… after Dad passed?”

I felt her shift in her seat. A small inhale.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “I remember. Never liked him.”

“He used to come into my room,” I said.

The words felt like glass in my throat.

“He said I was too rebellious. That girls like me needed to be… taught.”

My voice faltered. But I didn’t stop. Because if I stopped now—I never would be able to say it again.

“He would touch me.”

My mother stopped breathing. I watched the colour leave her face. Tears welled in her eyes, but she sat still. Like a statue stuck in time.

“And some days, when he said I needed discipline, he would make me touch him.”

I turned my face away, looking to the sky instead. Towards the building in the distance. The birds flying above. Anywhere but toward her. The memory felt so distant yet so close. Her hand wrapped around mine.

“Oh Rox—”

I clutched my cup tighter.

“I didn’t understand at first,” I whispered. “And then I did.”

Shame clawed at my insides. My vision blurred, a silent tear rolled off my eyes. I still didn’t turn toward her. Because if I saw my mother’s tears, I would break too.

“But by then…”

My voice broke.

“I didn’t know how to make it stop anymore.”

Her hand tightened over mine, grounding me, silently telling me she was still here.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, breath hitching.

“I wanted to tell you,” I said, my voice breaking now. “So many times. I almost did.”

I let out a hollow laugh that didn’t sound like mine.

“But you told me to fight my own battles.”

It wasn’t said with anger. Just truth. A child’s understanding of something too big for her.

“I thought…” I swallowed hard, “this was mine. He made me think this was what I deserved. That this is what happened to girls like me.”